Cloud Vs The Author
by Alma
Summary: After years of torturing Cloud in my stories, he finally confronts me about it.


I stared across the table at Cloud. This was the first time I'd actually seen him in months. I cleared my throat and he did likewise. It was absolutely silent except for the revolting ticking of the wall clock. 

My eyes met his, and he did not smile or frown, but simply stared back. I could tell he was thinking something about me, judging me perhaps, or formulating something clever to say maybe. He exhaled in a huff and broke eye contact, staring at the door.

It had been about twenty minutes of silence and neither of us moved. It wasn't a mutual love or mutual hate: we were entirely indifferent to each other. I utilized him constantly in my stories, speaking in first person sometimes (which is what I'm sure he's mad about), and forcing him through horrible ordeals. But I hadn't literally seen him in months.

The first time I met him was in late 1997. Yes, I beat Final Fantasy Seven about eight times and I fell in love the first. After playing for 99 hours and getting every possible materia leveled up, finding every conceivable secret, killing every weapon, and being able to easily defeat all forms of Sephiroth in under ten minutes without the use of a gameshark or any hints or guides, I moved on.

But there was something about Cloud that made him stick to my memory more that Squall, Terra, Serge, Crono, Zidane, Tidus, Ramza, or Delita. That's when the fanfiction began, like an itch under the skin.

The second time I met him was in my fiction. He was still depressed and insane then. I tortured him relentlessly in my stories, sweeping him through periods of crushing despair then throwing him into humorous discussion. He was pissed.

That was months ago. Now I sat across the table from Cloud. It was still silent. He crossed his arms. Twenty two minutes had passed. It wasn't tense, but we were just waiting for the other to speak.

There is an unspeakable bond between the author and the characters. There is an unmistakable love that can sometimes be confused with hatred (much like the feeling between siblings).

"Why do you warp and twist me to reflect your personal feelings?" he spoke, his warm voice sacred to my ears.

I hadn't heard that voice in a while and it created a smile on my face.

"We have the same disease. I'm infected and there is no cure," I responded, but his blue eyes returned no agreement.

"We are not the same," he told me.

Again, the awful silence followed. Afraid that he would speak no more, I struggled to find my next sentence.

"It's not obsession, it's not truth, it's not beauty, it's not sorrow or longing, it's projection. You are the projection of me onto paper. I chose you because you are the one I first loved. And during all my times of melancholy dreams and fits of suicidal cuts, you were the one I could project my emotions onto. You've always been there for me. You infect me with a constant clairvoyance. We are not the same, no...but we have the same infection..." I closed my eyes for a moment. I hadn't spoken such truth in a while.

"So I am you?" Cloud stood, the first movement he's made since walking in, and the stale air moved with him.

I nodded.

"You've been lying to everyone, telling them it was me who was insane," he began walking over to me, his voice condescending.

"You don't enjoy my stories about you?" I acted like I didn't know what he was talking about.

"I don't exist! I never existed!" his anger exploded as he pounded his fist on the table.

"I have a headache," I threw my hands over my eyes, rubbing my temple.

"You want people to wonder if Jenova ever existed in my mind or if I was truly insane, when they should be wondering if Cloud ever existed in your mind or if _you_ were truly insane!" his voice rung in my ears.

"It was more than just a story. They were all more than just stories. It was self-reflection. A dying need to express myself that ended in a dramatic tale of horrific nonfiction. No, in those stories you did not exist. It was me the whole time, using your role as an excuse," I told the truth for once.

"Right now I don't even exist. I only exist as part of this tremendous love affair you have with your writing," Cloud stepped closer to me. 

He was so close, I could see each individual strand of blonde hair and smell the fresh scent of metal and materia. He _was_ real.

"You are the one who understands me. Like an infection, you grow and spread throughout my mind, until I will be consumed by you and collapse under the weight of your presence," I stared past him, not wanting to meet those blue eyes. 

"Just as I collapsed under Jenova," Cloud smirked, as if knowing what to say to hit my weak spot, "Sounds familiar. So I _am _just a projection of yourself."

"Are you angry?" I met his gaze and fell into his beauty.

"No. I was angry before, but now I understand. We are both the product of a troubled mind. I am dreaming you while you dream me. We each exist simply because we coexist," he helped me up from my seat.

"Will I see you again? I haven't seen you in months," I sighed, knowing we both knew the answer to my question.

"No, you won't. Take care of yourself," he smiled a bit.

"You won't see me either. I'm leaving forever. I just wanted to thank you for being there the whole time, during every crucial moment." I hugged Cloud tight and his soft hair grazed my cheekbone.

"You don't have to leave forever, even though I know you will." Cloud embraced me back.

"The one thing I'll miss is writing with you. Promise..no, nevermind. You're no good with promises, heh heh," I smiled weakly.

"I can't keep any promise since I will die with you." He managed to return the sad smile.

"The night will be beautiful," I spoke those final words to him.

In the few words we exchanged, we understood eachother more than anyone could possibly imagine. The indifference manifested into love.


End file.
